Hauling cargo for the Coalition was a mistake Bax would curse to the end of her days. Running a load of confiscated Lotus to the back end of nowhere had deuce-dirty ship'rs, crooked lawmen, and all manner of miscreants fighting to see who could peel the be-damned cargo off her first. Forced to play by rules she was long familiar with but hoped to never utilize again, she had to draw on a past she'd fled; a brutal, violent life that threatened to drag her back to its joyous, terrible clutches with every encounter.

They weren't the only things standing in her way, however. Improbable 'ghosts' now cluttered the lanes, their invisible mass solid enough to pose a deadly threat, and the silent, frozen visions of rigs and bodies flitting through control rooms or drifting on the lanes was a puzzle everyone avoided thinking too hard about, the implications too terrible to contemplate. The cold, thunderous voice that spoke like deity to any and all that listened was icing on a cake she'd lost her appetite for long before it was served.

Stranded on the far edges of civilization, the WeIRD engine unresponsive, pushed to the limit and broken in so many ways, she now must confront a specter from her past, hoping against hope it wouldn't be the last thing she'd ever do.